Johnlock Prompts
by Gallifrey101
Summary: A series of Johnlock oneshots based on one-word prompts sent in by viewers like you! Could be fluff, could be angst, whatever you guys want. Send in the word and I shall write :) (Cover image credit to shocking blankets) PLEASE REVIEW! :)
1. Sick

**Prompt: Sick**

John trudged out of his bedroom, ruffling his hair with one of the fluffy, white towels Sherlock uncharacteristically seemed to own. He let out a contented sigh, dropping the wet towel in a laundry bin and shaking out his damp, blond hair.

He grinned. He'd had a hard week, having to deal with patient after patient and stay up two nights in a row to help Sherlock with a case - or, more accurately, stay up two nights in a row to pass his ignorant flatmate random objects he'd suddenly claim to need that were usually within five feet of him anyway. After the torment he'd endured, he'd made a pact with himself to spend his Saturday being a complete useless, lazy slacker.

Needless to say, it would _definitely _be the highlight of his week.

He made his way downstairs, humming show tunes as he flopped down in his armchair. He let out a loud, happy sigh, stretching his legs out as long as they could go - which, admittedly, wasn't far. He reached over to grab his newspaper when he noticed something. Something that definitely wasn't right.

Sherlock was nestled into the couch, so tightly curled up that his curly, black hair was touching his knees. His blue robe hung loosely off his immobile body, his clothes baggy and worn. John paled. With his body so bundled, John couldn't even see his eyes.

John bit his lip, his face suddenly an expression of concern. How long had he been there? He wasn't moving. Was he even breathing? Sure, Sherlock could go days without even leaving the couch, but he'd usually be sitting stiffly, his hands pressed together by his mouth as his mind came up with endless deductions and theories. What was wrong with him?

"Sherlock?" John asked weakly, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

Ten painful seconds passed before Sherlock responded. He let out a loud groan, his legs suddenly shooting out across the couch as he flopped onto his back, his arm thrown dramatically over his forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut, a frown crinkling his brow. "Hot," he choked out, his voice a pathetic moan.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked, leaning on the edge of his armchair and looking at his flatmate in worry. What had happened to him?

"Oh, leave me alone, John! Can't you see I'm dying?" he snapped before flipping over again and burying himself into the cushions with a loud, "Hmph."

John cocked an eyebrow. "You're dying?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and even though John knew it was impossible, he could have sworn he heard his eyes roll. "Of course I'm dying! Funny, I thought you'd be more upset, with your sentiment and all that. No matter. Funeral arrangements are to be made - a task which you should have already started, I might add."

John's eyes narrowed as they bore into his flatmate's back. Was he being serious? He could never tell with Sherlock. The man was either extremely serious, extremely sarcastic, or an extremely dramatic five-year-old. And although he'd gotten practice learning how to identify each one, at times, it was impossible. "Are you being serious?" John asked carefully.

At that, Sherlock whipped around, flinging himself into a sitting position, his glassy eyes furious. "Of course I'm being serious! Look at me, for God's sake, I'm getting weaker by the moment!" John examined him, noting that his normally pale skin was flushed, the place just underneath his nose red and raw. His voice sounded a bit nasally as well. It was then John noticed the trash can filled with balled up tissues and the two, heavy blankets that were tossed lazily on the floor.

Oh. It was all so obvious now.

"Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you were sick?" John asked, his voice soft. The poor man was a wreck.

His nostrils flared as he crossed his arms, his eyes burning into John's. "I'm not sick, John, I'm dying. It's the only explanation that makes sense."

John blinked. He could tell today was _not_ going to be easy. "How so?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, his body going limp against the couch. "I haven't been ill since I was eight, John. It's more likely that Moriarty sent someone to poison me than my ailment simply being the common cold."

John crossed his arms. "I think I'll decide that for myself." He pushed himself off the chair and dashed into the bathroom. He threw open the medicine cabinet, rooting around before his hand closed around the object he was looking for. He marched over to Sherlock before sticking the thermometer in his mouth and collapsing back onto his chair. "Keep that under your tongue and tell me your symptoms."

Sherlock's frown deepened and he plucked the thermometer from his mouth, looking at it curiously. "Why don't we own any modern thermometers? You are a doctor, after all."

"Hey!" John snapped, taking the thermometer from Sherlock's hand and shoving it back into his mouth. "The reading won't be right if you fiddle with it. Don't take it out until I say so." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, obviously wanting him to answer his question. John glared. "We don't own any modern thermometers because you took them all apart for your last experiment. Thank God I stopped you before you broke this one and killed us all with Mercury poisoning." He shook his head at the memory before turning back to his irritated flatmate. "Now tell me your symptoms."

Sherlock let out another sigh before speaking, his voice muffled by the thermometer. "A wunny nose, thore throat, nausea, headache, extweme changes in tempwature." John nodded, trying not to laugh. Not only did Sherlock sound like a five-year-old with a lisp, but he thought he was dying from what had to be a twenty-four hour flu bug. He clasped his hands in his lap, holding back his laughter as he waited for the results.

Sherlock looked down at the thermometer, scrunching his nose up in disgust. "Can I take tis fing out now?"

John chuckled before nodding and plucking the thermometer out of his mouth. Ah. Just as he expected. "Well, Mister Holmes, it appears you have a temperature of 103. You're not dying - you have the flu."

"That's not possible," Sherlock growled, curling his hands into fists. "You're obviously reading it wrong."

"Well, we can take your temperature again and see if it changes. Is that what you'd like?" John asked, his voice mockingly innocent.

Sherlock glared before snatching the thermometer out of John's hand and examining it quickly. "Defective then," he muttered before carelessly tossing the device back to his flatmate.

"It's not defective, Sherlock. You. Are. Sick."

"Preposterous," he spit, moodily crossing his arms. "I never get sick. And who are you to tell me when I'm diseased and when I'm not? I am the expert, after all."

John glared, his voice dripping with agitation. "Sherlock, I have a medical degree."

Sherlock let out a loud groan before flopping onto his back and angrily crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine, have it your way. If what you say is true, what is it that you expect from me?"

"I expect you to be a good patient and do what I tell you," John said as if he was dealing with a little boy who refused to go to time-out. "Understood?"

Sherlock let out another loud groan before rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into the cushions. John would take that as a yes.

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John slammed the mug of hot tea onto the tray, swearing as the liquid splashed up onto his jumper and growled as he poured out the thick syrup from the bottle beside him into a tiny measuring cup. He let out countless grunts, grumbles, and groans as he rifled through the cupboards, searching for the biscuits Sherlock had requested - and, for the record, wouldn't _stop _requesting - a few minutes ago.

Two hours. _Two bloody hours. _Two hours he'd been looking after Sherlock and he could honestly say they were some of the worst, most stressful hours of all his life. Sure, he'd had to deal with bandaging countless wounded soldiers on the verge of death, but at least they let him do his job and thanked him afterwards.

With Sherlock, however, it was a little different.

He'd demanded petty little thing after thing every five minutes, complaining about being too hot or too cold or too sleepy or too awake or too bored or too whatever the hell he was too of. And when John begrudgingly got whatever it was he'd asked for, he'd make a fuss about if it was the right kind, the right shape, the right texture, the right _colour_ for God's sake. Twice now, he'd had to go out to the store, deal with the infuriating chip and pin machine, and come back to the apartment only to have Sherlock almost weep that he'd been gone for too long and now he was too hot again. Because, of course, the man couldn't take the blanket off him himself.

John stormed back into the living room, slamming the tray onto the table and smiling tightly at his flatmate. "There you are, tea and biscuits, like you wanted."

Sherlock examined them in silence for a moment, cocooned in his blanket he'd no doubt whine for John to take off of him in a few minutes. He tentatively reached out to prod the biscuit with his index finger before slowly bringing it to his mouth and nibbling at the corner. He looked up at John and nodded, dismissing him as if he was a God damned maid.

He spun on his heel, about to collapse into his armchair, when he heard Sherlock's voice echo throughout the room. "What's this?"

John whipped around, looking down at his flatmate to see him pointing at the plastic measuring cup in disgust. "It's your medicine."

Sherlock snorted, shaking his head as he looked at John in disbelief. "I don't need medicine, John, I can heal on my own just fine."

John's hands clenched into fists at his side and he worked back the urge to take the tray into his hands and smash it against the wall. "Yes, but it will make you feel better a lot faster." _And then maybe you'll finally shut the hell up._

"What is it?" he asked simply, quirking an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Sherlock, I told you - "

"What _kind_ of medicine?" he snapped, looking at his flatmate as if he was an incompetent child. John's nails dug into his palm as his hands began to shake by his side. _That bastard, the nerve of him sometimes..._

"Nyquil."

"What in God's name is Nyquil?"

"It's not from around here, I ordered it online a while ago - it's very helpful. It will give you some relief from your symptoms." _And give me some relief from your constant complaining._

He frowned, his nose scrunching up as he pushed the tray away from him, curling up even tighter in his blanket. "_Poison_," he spat, shaking his head in disgust. "As if my immune system can't sweat out a simple fever. I don't need some magic herbs to cure me, John, who knows what it will do to my body."

"It. Will. Help. You," he growled out through clenched teeth.

"Then I refuse the help. I'd rather suffer through the pain than drink whatever toxins are lurking in that rubbish."

"Sherlock, take your medicine," John said, his nostrils flaring as his voice lost all it's kindness. He had had _enough_.

"I've already told you, John, I refuse the treatment."

"I mean it, Sherlock. Take the damn Nyquil."

His eyes narrowed and he pulled the blanket tighter around himself. "You can't make me," he sneered before he poked his tongue out from behind his lips, his eyebrows furrowed as he glared at the blond.

Had he just...? John felt like ripping every strand of his hair out one by one. Had he just stuck his tongue out at him!? _That conniving little prat..._ "Yes, I can," he snarled, his voice getting dangerously violent.

"What are you going to do, shove it down my throat?" he chided, looking slightly pleased with himself. Oh, he was going to _slaughter_ the jackass. "You know I'm stronger than you, John, don't even try."

John couldn't restrain himself as he slammed his hands down on the table and leaned forward, his eyes filling with anger and voice dripping with rage. "SHERLOCK HOLMES, TAKE YOUR MEDICINE _RIGHT NOW_!"

At that, he grinned - the cheeky bastard actually _grinned_ - before he unravelled himself from his blanket and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His taunting eyes met John's furious gaze and he smirked, his voice delighted and smug. "_No," _he said, his lips curving and pursing with skill, pronouncing the word as if it was the most delicate, beautiful thing that had ever graced his ears.

And John couldn't fucking stand it.

He wasn't entirely aware of what he was doing as he reached out and curled his fingers in Sherlock's thick, black hair, his eyes wild. Without warning, he brought his face up to his and smashed their lips together, forceful and commanding.

He felt Sherlock go ridged as his mouth devoured his, nipping and sucking at his lower lip. Sherlock let out a slight moan, his lips parting slightly to grant John access. He slipped his tongue inside, hot breath mingling with his as his tongue explored every inch of his mouth, taking in how good it felt to finally be able to do what he'd been craving since Sherlock had told him to come to the apartment, convenient or not.

Finally, he pushed him away, chest heaving as he took in the consulting detective's reaction. His normally pale skin was flushed, his hair messier than it had been this morning, his eyes wide and stunned. Huh. For once in his life he'd actually managed to surprise the notorious Sherlock Holmes.

His eyes still furious, he snatched the measuring cup and shoved it into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock took it numbly, putting it to his lips and drowning it in one gulp. John gave a curt, angry nod before collapsing in his chair and burrowing his face in the paper, once again trying to convince himself that he wasn't gay and that the want to shove his flatmate against the wall and do countless unspeakable things with him was purely out of anger.

After an hour of blissful silence, Sherlock cleared his throat insistently, a slight uncertainty in his tone. John lowered the book he'd been reading to be met by his flatmate's questioning gaze. "John?" he asked, his voice coming out in a squeak. He shook his head before continuing, trying to keep his voice leveled. "I can't seem to deduce why you would react in that way."

"You wouldn't shut up," John grumbled and, in all honesty, he wasn't quite sure he believed it himself.

"Ah...frustration displaying itself in sexual desire," he murmured, drumming his fingers against his chin. "Interesting."

John shook his head, trying to ignore the blush that crept into his cheeks as he buried his face back into his book. Oh well. At least it had got him to stop complaining.

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John woke with an ache in his chest, a pounding in his head, and a slight sheen of sweat covering his body. He groaned, flinging the blanket off himself as he bolted upright, his head swimming. His hands were clammy, he couldn't breathe through his nose, and his throat felt like it was on fire. He let out a groan, ignoring the ache it caused. _Fantastic._

He trudged downstairs in exhaustion to find Sherlock fully dressed on the couch, a cup of tea in his hands as he stared off into the distance. Looks like someone had gotten over his cold. Gee, he wondered who he passed it onto.

Sherlock's head snapped up as he heard John's footsteps, his brow furrowing as he took in his haggard appearance. "Are you all right?"

"You gave me your cold," he grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest as he began to shiver. _Peachy._

The corner of his mouth quirked, his eyes quickly sweeping over his flatmate. "Yes, that tends to happen when you swap salvia with someone who's contagious."

John felt a burning heat in his cheeks and he knew it wasn't from the fever. "It was to get you to shut up!" he exclaimed, desperation leaking into his voice.

"Of course," he responded calmly, setting his mug down onto the table. "Now sit."

John raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You looked after my needs yesterday - it's only fair that I return the favor. I don't like it when I owe someone a deed."

"You don't have to make things even, Sherlock," John muttered, focusing on the floorboards. "I was doing it because I cared." He shook his head before he turned on his heel, shuffling his way to the kitchen.

Suddenly, Sherlock sprinted in front of him, a look in his eyes John couldn't quite place. "Perhaps I want to do it for the sake of our...friendship," he said, sounding slightly urgent. "I - I do care, John. Quite a great deal, actually. I mean...if something were ever to happen to you..." He sighed, looking guiltily down at the floor. "I don't like seeing you upset, especially when it's because of me. In reality, sometimes I think I might be in lo - " He cut himself off, his eyes suddenly expressionless as they shot up and met the stunned look of his flatmate. "I have a medical question."

John blinked before shaking his head, leaning against the doorway as he tried to dismiss his shock. "Yes?"

"Could I catch the cold from you again?"

John's eyes narrowed, running a hand through his hair in slight frustration. That was why he was saying that he cared, wasn't it? So John wouldn't take offense that he only thing he _actually_ cared about was his health. "No, Sherlock - not yet anyway. Your immune system has learned to battle this virus off until it changes. So, yes, you're safe."

He smirked, turning around and clasping his hands behind his back as he strode into the kitchen. "In that case, we have an important matter to intend to."

John crossed his arm, looking at his flatmate in annoyance as he followed him into the kitchen. "And what would that be?"

Sherlock spun around so fast he was a blur, grabbing John's waist and pinning him against the right side of the doorway. "Shutting you up," he breathed, before eagerly pressing his lips against his.

John's eyes widened for a minute before they fluttered shut, his hands almost subconsciously tangling in Sherlock's hair. He grinned into his mouth, welcoming the blissful feeling of his flush lips ravishing his own.

Maybe having Sherlock as a patient wasn't so bad after all.

**Fin! A little cheesy, but cute, I think :) Anyway, if you read the description, you know that I won't keep writing if you don't send in one-word prompts! So please review and send in your ideas, like the one that inspired this one: sick. Anyway, thanks a lot for reading, you're all awesome! :D**

** - Gallifrey101**


	2. Jealous

** Prompt: Jealous**

** Rating: T**

** Genre: Fluff/Humor**

** Summary: Drunken John is definitely the jealous type ;) No spoilers.**

I was drunk.

There wasn't any use in sugar-coating it. I was pissed off my ass, my vision swimming as I slid off - or, more accurately, _fell_ off - the chair I'd been sitting on. I didn't really care though. The liquor made my body feel all warm and fuzzy and I didn't remember the last time I felt this bubbly. I giggled as I pushed myself up from the dirty floor, stumbling away from the bar to look for my Sherly, wondering if he'd came with me in the first place.

I giggled again, hiding my hands in the sleeves of my jumper. That's what she said.

"Sherly," I slurred out, grinning as I stumbled through the pub. Oh, right. We'd come here for a case or something, to do some investigating. My Sherly had wanted to go interview some important people and abandoned me at the bar, leaving me sulking and miserable. I pouted, recalling the memory of me sitting uselessly in my chair, ordering shot after shot after shot. Sherly shouldn't have left me there - that wasn't very nice.

Finally, I managed to make out the sight of a man towering above most of the people scattered throughout the pub, a curly, black mop of hair on his head. My face lit up as I started bouncing from foot to foot. It was my Sherly!

I was about to run to him when I noticed who he was talking to. I let out a gasp, my hands clenching into fists by my side. It was some slut with a skanky little tank top and shorts that didn't even cover her ass. She was running her hands all over my Sherly's body, whispering something in his ear. That bitch! Didn't she knew Sherly belonged to me? Hello!? _My _Sherly!

I stormed over to them, my fists shaking. He spotted me, looking relieved as he pushed the girl away. I almost snorted. Giving me that adorable little look wasn't gonna stop me from telling this girl where she could go.

"Nadine," Shely said calmly, clasping his hands behind his back. "This is my associate, Doctor John Watson. If you see fit, we - "

I took a step forward, putting myself between the skank and my Sherly. I leant in so far I almost fell, my eyes daggers as I glared at her. Her face was caked with make up, her lipstick red. She could have stained Sherly's purple shirt! It was my _favourite_ shirt! "Youz get awaayy from my Shhhherly, hoe," I spat, my voice dripping with venom.

She took a step back, her blue eyes shocked. "I - sorry, I don't think you underst - "

"_Yessss_, we are lovers, thankz you sooo much for assking," I responded, crossing my arms. She looked stunned and hurt, her brow furrowing in confusion. God, she was _so_ dumb.

"Perhaps we can continue this conversation later," I heard Sherly say from behind me. "I think Doctor Watson has consumed enough for tonight."

I spun around, eyes furious as I glared up at his amused look. How dare he flirt with some random girl and act so innocent, as if we had never even kissed!? Granted, we hadn't. I guess, really, we weren't even dating - but that was no excuse! "You whore!" I screamed, stretching up on my tippy-toes to slap him across the face. "You willz not be continuing your conver - conver - consation later cuz you are mine! _My_ Sherly!"

He met my glare, his eyes wide. "John, I believe it would be wise of us to head home. You're very intoxicated and you - "

"I am _not _in - inoxdacated!" I screeched, stamping my foot. "I'm purrficly fine! Watch!" I spun around in a circle, trying to show him that I could balance. Unfortunately, the room got too blurry and I stumbled over my own feet, collapsing on the floor. I giggled, grinning up at my Sherly. "I fell."

I saw Sherly's lips tug at the corners as he tried to hold back a smile. I beamed, shooting up from my spot on the ground, reaching blindly for something to hold onto so I wouldn't fall. I grabbed hold of my Sherly's shirt, pulling him close and laying my head against his chest. "I forrrgive you, youz know," I murmured quietly, nuzzling my face into his shirt. "For flirting with the skank. I guess she _is _kinda pretty - but she's waaaay too young for youz. So nooooo more flirting or else no sexy times for a year."

"Hmm, yes, that does sound quite tragic," he responded, grinning down at me in amusement for some reason. I didn't know what was so funny. My Sherly was sexy, but he was so _weird_. "However, we need to return to Baker Street, okay?"

I nodded, letting him drape a warm arm around me as he led me to one of the many cabs idling on the side of the road. He bent over to talk to the cabbie, leaving me with the splendid view of his ass. I giggled. What I'd like to do with that ass...

"John, get into the cab now, all right?" he said, opening the door for me. I nodded, tripping over the curb and tumbling into the seat. He slid in beside me, quickly shutting the door and sealing us inside. He spoke quickly to the cabbie, but I wasn't sure what he was saying. I was too busy wondering what it would be like to sit in his lap.

So I did.

It wasn't easy. My vision was already damaged enough - I didn't need the blur of bright lights outside the windows making it worse. Still, I somehow managed to clamber onto his lap, snuggling into his chest. "_Mmm_, Sherly," I murmured, placing a quick kiss on his collarbone.

He froze, his hands ridged talons by his side. He opened and closed his mouth aimlessly, trying to stutter out some form of a word. I beamed in pride for being the only person in the world who was able to make Sherly speechless.

"John..." he said quietly, gently trying to pry me off him. I simply tightened my arms around his waist and let out a low whine. He sighed. "John, you are highly intoxicated and I do not wish to have you in my lap just so you can complain about it in the morning."

My lower lip trembled, tears threatening to leak out my eyes. "Please, Sherly?" I whimpered, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "Just for the ride home?"

He glanced out the window before letting out a loud sigh and slipping his arms around my back. "Fine. Please note I'm only doing this because I don't want to have the misfortune of dealing with a whiney, baby John."

"M' not a baby," I mumbled, feeling Sherlock's chest move against me as he laughed. I smiled, snuggling as close to him as I possibly could, giving into the heavy feeling in my eyelids.

So this is what bliss felt like.

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"John!" a deep voice cried loudly while a hand gripped my shoulder. "John, for the love of God, will you wake up!?"

I let out a slight groan, shaking my head and batting his hands away. "Shhh, m' sleeping," I mumbled without opening an eye.

"You can't sleep in the cab, John. We're at Baker Street. You need to follow me upstairs."

I let out a loud groan but opened by eyes to see my Sherly leaning over me. I grinned. "Hullo."

He cracked a smile before tugging on my arm and dragging me out of the cab. I collapsed into him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. We stayed like that for a few minutes, before Sherly finally spoke. "You have to walk, John."

I shook my head, pulling out of his embrace to throw my arms in the air. "Carry me!"

"I can't - "

"Please, Sherly?" I asked with a pout, my eyes watering slightly. "_Pleasssssse_?"

He looked up, muttering something to himself, before ordering me to jump on his back. I obliged and he swore and stumbled before wobbling into the house. "Good God, you're heavy."

"Hey!" I snapped, slapping him playfully on the back. "M' not heavy, youz just weak."

He let out a small chuckle before clambering up the stairs and opening the door to our apartment. He set me down gently, before grabbing hold of my hand and dragging me up the next flight of stairs. We made it to my bedroom where he opened the door and lightly pushed me inside. I quickly stripped down to just my T-shirt and boxers, before rushing forward and throwing my arms around Sherly, who was standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"John, you need to go to bed."

"I love you," I murmured, refusing to let go of him. "I love youz so much. But I'm not gay."

"I know, John. I love you too, all right? You have saved my life a few times, it's only expected. Best friends do tend to have a relationship stronger than most. Now, you have to - "

"I don't love you like that, Shhherly!" I exclaimed suddenly, pulling back and stamping my foot. "I'm _in _love with youz! And I'm not gay, I can't be - cuz the only guy I've evvver fa - fallllen in love with is youz."

His eyes widened, his hands tightening around the frame of the door. He looked down, focusing intently on the floorboards. "John. You - you're highly intoxicated, you know that. You're going to regret saying this in the morning."

"NO!" I shouted, my hands curling into fists by my side. "I'm drunk as hell, I _knooow_ that! I'm not eggsactily co - coairent right now, but I know how I feel and I know how I've been feeeling for the past year! I love you, Sherlock Holmes! So there!" I glared before I stormed over to my bed, crossing my arms as I threw myself down onto the mattress. My Sherly could be so oblivious sometimes.

I heard the floorboards creak, and buried myself deeper into my blankets. Sherly was such a meanie. He didn't deserve to know how much I cared if he was going to be such an ass about it.

I felt a tentative hand on my shoulder, featherlight and almost tender. "John," he said, his voice echoing in my ears. I closed my eyes tighter, sticking my fingers in my ears. It didn't help much. His freakishly deep voice didn't know boundaries. "John, look at me."

I sighed before flipping over to look into his eyes, my arms folded across my chest. "What do youz want, Sherly?"

"You're not going to remember this in the morning," he stated simply. "You'll be much too hungover."

I rolled my eyes. "No shit, Sherlock."

He shot me a glare before continuing with his speech. "You'll forget you ever said those things to me. You'll forget this whole night ever happened." He took a deep breath, his eyes boring into mine. "You'll forget that - that I love you too."

I blinked then beamed, rolling my eyes at Sherly's stupidity. "Then tell me in the morninnnnng, you idiot," I grinned, poking him in the chest and giggling. "I won't be drunk, but I'll still love youz."

A smile slowly spread across his face, and he looked down at his hands, shuffling nervously in his spot. "I believe that would be an acceptable plan. I'll leave you to get some rest now. I'll see you when you awake." He turned on his heel, his eyes still glued to the ground.

"SHERLY!" I screeched, angrily crossing my arms over my chest. He quickly whipped around, shooting me a confused and concerned look. "Just _wa-hair_ do youz think you're goooing?"

He smirked slightly. "I was planning to get some rest myself. You _are_ always pestering me about - "

"Of course I want you to get sleep, stupood!" I exclaimed, rolling my eyes in exasperation. "But I want you to sleep with _me_!" For a genius, Sherly sure was stupid.

His eyes widened. "John, I - "

"We don't have to shhhhag," I insisted desperately. "We don't even have to snog. I just want youz to hold me while I slllleep."

He sighed. "I really don't think - "

"_Pleasssssse_, Sherly?" I begged, for what had to be the tenth time tonight. "I don't wanna be all alone in the dark! _Pleassssssssse?_"

He looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head before stripping down to his T-shirt and boxers and sliding under the covers. I jumped up from the bed so I could dive under the blankets, snuggling as close to my Sherly as I could possibly get.

"You _are_ aware that you will go ballistic when you wake up," he said with an amused smile stretched across his face. It was more of a statement than a question.

"We'll deal with that in the mahorning," I mumbled, my eyelids suddenly ten times heavier. I yawned, knotting my hands in Sherly's shirt. "G'night, Sherly."

He could have responded or simply held me closer, but sleep overtook me before I could process a thing.

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My eyes fluttered open and I immediately groaned, being met by a stream of sunlight pouring through the window. My stomach churned angrily, my head a sea of dizziness and incoherent thoughts. Had I ever been this hungover before?

I let out another loud groan as I managed to prop myself up onto my elbows, massaging the space between my eyebrows. I remembered going to the pub with Sherlock to interview someone and being left at the bar. Figures everything after that was a blur.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said from beside me. I looked to my right to see my flatmate lounging against the pillows, his expression composed.

"Ughn, morning," I managed to grunt out, moving my hands to rub my temples. Suddenly, realization flooded through me and my eyes widened as my head snapped to the right. My eyes met lagoon green and I could practically _hear_ my jaw drop. Oh. My. _God_.

I fumbled out of bed, managing to land myself on the floor in a tangled heap. "SHERLOCK, WHAT IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU DOING IN MY BED!?" I screeched, my eyes wide. I looked down at myself, swallowing hard. I was still clothed - partially, anyway. That was a good sign, right?

"You asked me to sleep with you," he answered with a shrug.

I had? I was going to kill drunken me! "I was drunk!" I exclaimed, practically flailing. "You could have said no!"

"Oh, believe me, I tried," he said, grinning down at me in amusement. "But, despite my willpower, the constant whines of, 'Please, Sherly?' got a little too infuriating to ignore."

I simply blinked, a fiery heat in my cheeks. What had I said? I was keeping a secret from him, and a big one at that. Being in love with your flatmate wasn't exactly something you wanted to scream to the world. I prayed to God drunken me had enough sense to keep his mouth shut.

"You're hungover and in pain," Sherlock stated simply, giving me a quick once-over. "You need rest. Come back to bed and I'll retrieve some aspirin, if you'd like."

Our eyes locked for a few minutes before I begrudgingly climbed back into bed, the soft mattress welcoming my weight. I cleared my throat, gathering my courage to ask the question I really didn't want to know the answer to. "Um, Sherlock?" I asked nervously. He simply glanced at me, cocking an eyebrow. "Do - What happened last night?"

He shrugged. "Nothing important. You got highly intoxicated and yelled at me for talking to a homeless woman." He paused. "You called her a hoe and told me not to flirt with a skank. I believe you thought she was a drunken girl in the pub instead of someone from the homeless network."

I buried my face in my hands, the heat from my face practically burning my palms. "Anything else?"

"Nothing of importance. I'll fetch you your aspirin now." I felt the covers shift slightly before they went completely still. "Oh, and John?"

I took my face out of my hands to meet his expressionless gaze. "Yes?" I managed to choke out.

He grinned before leaning in and pressing his lips against the base of my neck. Before I could question what was happening, he was leaving a trail of wet kisses up the side of my neck before he nipped my earlobe. I shivered, feeling his hot breath ghost against my ear as he spoke, his voice husky. "You are absolutely _adorable_ when you're jealous." And with that, he pulled himself out of bed and quickly disappeared down the hall, hopefully to retrieve some type of meds.

I stared at the doorway, my cheeks aflame and eyes wide. I collapsed against my pillows, going over what had just happened in my mind.

I couldn't help the smile that stretched across my face. Maybe drunken me had done something right after all.

** The end! Whoop! Sorry if I got a little off topic with this one, the idea just sort of spread. Drunk!John is definitely fun to write :) Quick reminder that I won't post new chapters if I don't get one-word prompts, so please send them in as well as reviews! Oh, and a huge thank-you to**

**Guest**

**Werewolf not a goldenretriever **

**for reviewing! That's all for today, folks! :) Thanks so much for reading! Bye!**

**- Gallifrey101**


	3. Rainbow

**Prompt: Rainbow - Courtesy of **_**Werewolf not a goldenretriever**_

** Rating: M (For...uh...you'll see)**

** Genre: Pure and Utter Crack**

** Summary: Lestrade has a theory. No spoilers.**

Anderson, Donovan, and Lestrade sat in a circle at one of the many desks scattered throughout the office, practically snoring as they desperately tried to stay awake. They'd all stayed after work to go over the details of one of the most confusing cases they'd ever come across and were well aware of the fact it was half past one in the morning.

Donovan sighed, shoving away the gory pictures of the crime scene in exhaustion and disgust. "Ughn, I can't take anymore of this!" she groaned, letting her head fall into her hands. "As much as I hate to say this, I think it would be a good idea to call the freak."

"I already did," Lestrade grumbled, leaning back in his chair. "He said he was busy before hanging up on me."

"Sherlock Holmes, passing up a chance to show off?" Anderson scoffed, crossing his arms. "Are you sure you heard him right?"

Lestrade frowned. "I don't know. When he answered he sounded angry, going on about he was busy doing important experiments or something of the like. He was all out of breath, it was hard to understand him."

"Out of breath?" Anderson echoed. Lestrade nodded in response.

Suddenly, Donovan let out a gasp, causing the two men to cast a tired glance in her direction. "You don't think...was he having a wank?"

Although they both look disgusted, Lestrade managed to shake his head and answer. "I heard someone else in the background. It wasn't porn, I swore I heard someone say his name. Couldn't really make it out. It was all muffled."

Donovan's jaw dropped. "Does the freak have a girlfriend!?" She paused. "Or a boyfriend? Hang on, is Sherlock straight or gay?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer but froze. He glanced at Anderson who shrugged. "I - I have absolutely no idea."

"How can we not know!?" she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. "All right, we need to figure this out. Let's conduct some research."

Lestrade glared. "Sally, we're in the middle of - "

"We're not getting anywhere without the freak," she admitted begrudgingly, "And I am seconds away from dying of boredom. Can't we take a break and do a quick search on how to tell if someone's gay? Please?"

Anderson shook his head in exasperation while Lestrade let out a sigh. "Fine," he grumbled, pulling out his laptop. "But I'm only doing this because I am drunk on exhaustion." He opened his laptop and quickly starting typing. A few mouse clicks and Google searches later, Lestrade closed his computer and looked at Sally in triumph. "I have found a foolproof way to figure out Sherlock's sexuality."

"Well?" she prompted impatiently.

"Apparently, homosexuals vomit rainbows. So..."

"We make him vomit and get our answer," Anderson finished slowly. "But how will we get the moron to throw up?"

Donovan grinned. "Oh, I can think of a few things. We'll start testing after the weekend. One way or another, we are going to make Sherlock Holmes puke."

"This may be the first time I've ever said this, but I'm looking forward to Monday," Lestrade said.

"Amen!" Donovan and Anderson echoed, thoughts of vomiting consulting detectives dancing in their heads.

This would be so much more entertaining than solving crimes.

**Monday:**

"How hard is that to figure out!?" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. He shook his head, shooting Anderson a glare. "Mrs Evans was having an affair and her husband found out, causing him to confide in one of his friends. A friend, I might add, who had a history of mental issues and was undoubtedly in love with Mr Evans himself. He then killed Mrs Evans and made it seem as if she committed suicide. How hard is that to understand!? A monkey could figure it out!" He paused, looking off into the distance, his brow furrowed. "Then again, most monkeys have a much higher intelligence level than you."

Before Anderson could make a retort, Lestrade stepped forward with a paper bag clutched in his right hand, trying to fight back a smug smile. All weekend, the trio had suggested plan after plan on how to get the arrogant consulting detective to throw up. They'd eventually decided a simple case of food poisoning would do the trick, prompting Lestrade to get a batch of doughnuts and inject one of them with ipecac. And, sure, maybe that wasn't the _brightest_ idea, but Anderson and Donovan had insisted he do it for over three hours and he'd made sure to inject no more than was necessary. Still, he couldn't help feeling a little guilty that he was conducting the experiment just to see if Sherlock Holmes would blow colourful chunks.

"I bought doughnuts for all of us," Lestrade said, fishing one out of the bag, making sure it wasn't Sherlock's, and passing it to John. John gratefully accepted and he turned to Sherlock, pulling out the - erm - manipulated one and holding it out to him. _Manipulated,_ Lestrade decided silently, _sounded much better than poisoned._

"Not hungry," he said bleakly, before turning around to examine the body once again.

Lestrade's eyes flickered to the doughnut and back to the consulting detective, before clearing his throat. "But, Sherlock, I think - "

Sherlock made an impatient noise in the back of his throat before waving a dismissive hand. "I don't need your opinion, Lestrade. I came here for one reason only and that reason does not inclu - "

"Sherlock," John interrupted suddenly, glaring down at his flatmate. Sherlock stiffened as his eyes met John's glare, both of them completely still and silent. They simply stared at each other, as if having some weird psychic conversation, before Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, sprang up, and snatched the doughnut from Lestrade's hand. "Thank you, Lestrade," he muttered begrudgingly. "That was very thoughtful." He bit into the pastry, swallowing audibly with a grimace, and dramatically turned around to shoot John a glare. "Happy?"

"It still isn't over," John murmured, causing Sherlock to shoot him a dirty look before leaning over the body and taking another bite.

Lestrade grinned and chose to ignore whatever weird exchange had happened between the two flatmates. He plucked a doughnut from the bag, before tossing the rest to Anderson and Donovan. He smirked, watching Sherlock intently. In all honesty, he never thought he'd be able to outwit Sherlock Holmes. Now all they had to do was wait.

And wait they did.

For ten minutes, actually. Ten minutes of Sherlock rambling on about every detail of the woman's life, while the trio pretended to act interested. John - the lucky bastard - had slipped out for a walk a few minutes ago, likely getting sick from the stench of rotting corpse.

Lestrade suddenly felt his stomach gurgle and bent over slightly, placing a hand over his lower abdomen. Was _he_ getting sick from the stench? No, that was impossible. Years of examining dead bodies had practically made him immune. So what -

The pieces quickly fell into place as he glanced at the half eaten doughnut Sherlock had placed on the table. It was Jelly. But the one he'd poiso - _manipulated_ was chocolate...Just like the one he'd had for himself.

Lestrade bent over, clutching his stomach tightly, choking back that unpleasant feeling of nausea and rushing release. Sherlock glanced at him, his eyes glazed over with concern. "Lestrade, are you - "

He was interrupted by Lestrade's sudden retching and then the overwhelming stench of...well...the gory details weren't really necessary.

"...All right?" Sherlock finished lamely, examining the DI in worry. He offered his hand, but Lestrade refused. He didn't trust himself not to fall down in a heap all over again. How had his employees even convinced him to go through with this stupid plan!?

"John will be back soon," he offered softly, bending down next to him. Lestrade felt a wave of guilt rush over him. Okay, so maybe giving him a product that was meant to completely empty out your stomach wasn't a great thing to do. Honestly, he wouldn't wish this upon anyone - no matter how annoying they could get. "He might be able to take you to a clinic or examine you himself. Are you sure you don't want to sit?"

Lestrade shook his head numbly before Sherlock stood up again, snapping at Anderson to get him some water and a towel. He muttered something about finding John before marching out of the flat and slamming the door behind him.

Anderson cleared his throat, causing Lestrade to see his two friends looking down at him with slight worry and - _those bastards_ - amusement.

"So...I suppose it's time for Plan B?" Anderson offered with a shrug.

Lestrade let out a growl. He was going to kill those two.

**Tuesday:**

"Are you sure you're feeling all right?" John asked Lestrade softly, his eyes clouded with concern.

Lestrade nodded, smiling weakly. "Just a flu bug," he insisted lamely. "I'm fine now, good as new."

John gave a curt nod, although his face was still scrunched up in worry. "As long as you're sure. You know, it couldn't hurt - "

"John, take a look at this, would you?" Sherlock said suddenly, his impatient voice echoing throughout the room.

The blond rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated, yet slightly amused sigh. "Well, it appears his royal highness requires my assistance. Really, though, Greg, you should consider taking a few days off. Doctor's orders." He flashed him a kind smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder, before trudging off to help Sherlock with whatever he needed.

Lestrade felt a wave of guilt rush over him, watching John as he and Sherlock bickered like an old married couple. Feeling guilty was stupid, considering John wouldn't be the one vomiting - or _not_ vomiting - rainbows on the waxed, tiled floor. That was Sherlock's job.

In all honesty, he wasn't quite sure how his two employees had managed to convince him to be the culprit _again._ They'd probably used some weird hypno crap on him. All he'd heard was some whining about how he was the only one who Sherlock trusted before he'd told them he'd do it and to please shut the fuck up, because he was still dealing with the side effects of the ipecac.

He just hoped to God this would work.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked suddenly, gathering his courage as he strode over to both men slouching over the square of light blasting from the computer screen. John looked up and raised an eyebrow, while Sherlock didn't even flinch.

"I'm busy," he said simply, eyes glued to the screen as his fingers flew across the keyboard. John shot Sherlock a glare, which, of course, went unnoticed.

"Right, yeah, thanks for - "

"Your appreciation is not needed - in fact, it is very distracting from my work. I assume you want this case finished before Friday so you can achieve your Christmas bonus. Therefore, I think it would be wise to keep quiet unless you want to spend your holidays with Tiny Tim."

Lestrade cleared his throat and nodded, fighting back the urge to kick the detective in the neck. "Yes, well, I just wanted to give you this," he said quickly, snatching the bottle of pills from his pocket and sliding it across the table.

Sherlock caught it, again, without looking up, his expression unreadable. "What's this?"

"It's from the drug store, it's - "

"I am aware that it is a medicine, I'm simply asking why you're giving it to me."

Lestrade scratched the back of his head, trying not to sound too nervous. "Well, I was severely ill yesterday, so I thought it would be a good idea for you to take one of those. You know, just in case you caught something from me."

"I don't need - "

"Actually, Sherlock, that's not a bad idea," John interrupted, picking up the bottle and examining it in his hands. "You were the one closest to him yesterday. It'll keep you from getting sick."

"I don't get ill, John, I don't have time for that."

"Exactly. You don't have time for it. And I don't want to deal with you complaining for a week because you caught Lestrade's cold."

Sherlock finally tore his eyes away from the computer screen, face pulled into a frown. John stared back, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow. Lestrade watched the flatmates stare at each other, his eyes darting between the two of them. What the hell was going on?

"Fine," Sherlock snapped suddenly, snatching the bottle off the table, twisting it open, and popping one of the pills into his mouth. He glared, swallowing audibly as his eyes bore into John's. "How long are you planning to continue with this?"

John let out a slight laugh, rolling his eyes. "For as long as we agreed; one week, Sherlock. You'll survive."

"What are you two going on about?" Lestrade asked, unable to help his curiosity.

John grinned. "The great Sherlock Holmes lost a bet and has to do whatever I ask for a week."

"It's quite exasperating," Sherlock grumbled, turning back to the computer screen with a scowl.

Lestrade grinned. With John on his side, this would be so much easier - even if he was helping unintentionally.

After a few hours of brainstorming once Lestrade had finished emptying his stomach into a toilet, the trio had decided pills would be the next step on getting the detective to throw up. It wasn't poison or anything dangerous like that. Really, the drugs were pretty harmless. Unless, of course, you forgot to take them with food - in which case, you would vomit them up and all would be well again. And, since Sherlock ate maybe once every two days, the pills would come right back up the minute he swallowed them.

Yup. Nothing could go wrong.

And since nothing could go wrong, Lestrade was more than a little confused when Sherlock didn't seem to be reacting in any way at all. His brow furrowed as he watched the detective study the computer as if his life depended on it.

"Sherlock, are you feeling all right?" Lestrade asked carefully, glancing at the bottle of pills and then at the focused detective's face.

"Fine," he answered smoothly, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Your concern is distracting."

"You just, uh...look a bit pale," Lestrade decided to say finally, hoping that would be a good excuse.

"He's fine," John insisted happily, a smug grin plastered on his face. "I've been making sure of it."

Sherlock groaned and shook his head, eyes still glued to the screen. "In other words, he's been forcing me to perform tedious tasks that interfere with my work. He likes to torture me."

"Yes, because forcing you to get proper rest and eat at least twice a day is _torture. _He takes all the fun out of winning, you know that?"

Lestrade blinked. "Eating?" Oh, _come on!_

"Yup," John answered proudly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "At least twice a day. I wouldn't have let him take the pills if he hadn't; they make you sick if you haven't eaten."

How the hell had Lestrade forgotten John was a damn doctor!? "Oh," he said simply, resisting the urge to bang his head into the wall. "Sorry, I didn't know."

John shrugged. "No harm done."

Lestrade internally groaned. Why was making grown men vomit so difficult!?

**Wednesday:**

"Why me!?" Anderson demanded for what had to be the fifth time today.

"Because I've done it twice already!" Lestrade hissed. How had he gotten himself into this mess?

"Why not Sally?"

"Because she's a little too busy handling a murder case to try to make a sociopath vomit rainbows!" Lestrade snapped, trying not to raise his voice above a whisper.

"But - but - "

"This was your idea. Either you do it or it doesn't happen."

Anderson let out a huff of breath before shooting Lestrade a glare. "Fine," he said. "But I'm holding you responsible if anything happens to me."

Lestrade rolled his eyes as he watched Anderson make his way to the sleeping detective's side. John had been helpful without knowing it, forcing Sherlock to take a nap after he'd let out a simple yawn. It was almost sweet, seeing how much John cared for him, and hilarious watching Sherlock curse him with everything he had. And thus came the perfect opportunity to try to make Sherlock vomit.

Anderson glanced back at Lestrade, his eyes drowning in worry. Lestrade simply shrugged and motioned with his hand for him to get on with it. Anderson took a deep breath before slowly sticking two gloved fingers down Sherlock's throat.

Okay, admittedly, it was a pretty weird and creepy thing to do. But Anderson had been the one to think of it and they were running out of options.

Lestrade watched as Anderson's fingers snuck further into his mouth, waiting anxiously to see -

Sherlock's eyes flew open suddenly, his fisted hand shooting out into the air. It connected with Anderson's jaw and he fell backwards, letting out a loud groan. Lestrade looked at Sherlock's furious expression to Anderson's position on the floor. His eyes darted to the other side of the room where a box of doughnuts lay. Hmm...

He let out an innocent whistle as he shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled away, leaving his employee to fend for himself.

He smiled as he bit into a well-deserved doughnut. It was Anderson's stupid idea anyway.

**Thursday:**

"It's your turn because I narrowly escaped having the life beat out of me, you prat!" Anderson practically screamed, his hands curled into fists by his side. He had come into work with a large bruise on his jaw, pepper spray tucked into one pocket, and an expression that looked like someone had force-fed him a bottle of lemon juice - but, then again, he looked like that most days.

"You're the one who wanted to use his gag reflex!" Lestrade protested. "It's not my fault Sherlock has enough sense to wake up when someone has their fingers jammed down his throat! I think Sally should have a go."

"I'm not ruining a pair of 150 pound shoes because of something as stupid as this," she said defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Anderson said, his face drawn into a sneer.

She paused, her brow scrunching slightly as she looked off into the distance. After a moment of silence, she shrugged, turning her attention back to her colleagues. "We could pay an intern."

Lestrade and Anderson exchanged looks. Anderson simply shrugged while Lestrade let out a sigh. "Why am I doing this?"

"Because you're just as curious as we are," she said pointedly, a slight smirk decorating her face. "Don't deny it; you're dying to know."

He let out an exasperated sigh, burying his face in his hands. "Fine. Fine! But you two will have to recruit someone yourselves. As far as anyone's concerned, I was never involved." And with that, he strode away, trying to ignore the part of his brain that was asking what the bloody hell was wrong with him.

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"Are you all set?" Donovan asked nervously, looking towards the consulting detective who sat at the opposite side of the room.

The intern nodded, his blond hair falling into his eyes as he did so. "Yup." He opened up his jacket, smiling slightly. "Got it all ready."

She grinned. "Great. And, uh, sorry about...before. We hadn't really thought about using...a prop."

He shrugged. "No worries. The money's worth it." He grinned. "Now get ready for a show!" He turned then, stumbling towards an unsuspecting Sherlock.

"I can't believe we tried to pay an intern to throw up when we could have used fake vomit," Lestrade groaned, finally coming out from his hiding spot behind a pillar. Like he said, he hadn't wanted to be involved in this. Especially when they could have used a combination of soup, carrots, and apple sauce instead of forcing someone to get sick.

"It wasn't my idea!" Anderson said, his voice just below a scream. "She's the one who's convinced Sherlock's a sympathy vomiter." He turned around to face the Sargent. "Why in God's name do you think this will make him sick to his stomach? The man keeps eyeballs in his microwave, for Christ's sake!"

Donovan shrugged, her face pulled into a frown. "I figure if it went all over his stuff, he'll be so upset, he'll end up vomiting himself."

"Well, why don't we see how your brilliant plan plays out, shall we?" Anderson sneered, turning back to face the scene before him.

The intern stumbled over to Sherlock, his face pale. He seemed to be panting, beads of sweat running down the sides of his face. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, looking at the man in suspicion. He muttered something before his cheeks puffed and he spilled the contents in his bag all over Sherlock's equipment. Lestrade had to admit - the kid was a fantastic actor.

However, Sherlock barely even flinched. He shrugged, brushing off the few specks that had managed to get on his clothes, and said something to the intern with a frown, patting him on the back. Then he pushed himself up from the chair and walked to the bathroom, likely to check if anymore of the substance remained on his clothes.

The intern trudged back to the trio, a look of slight concern on his face. "Um...I don't think he had the reaction you were expecting."

"Obviously not," Anderson replied, shooting a glare at Donovan who frowned. He turned back to the intern, cocking an eyebrow. "Did he say anything?"

"Uh...yeah. He said he wants four hundred pounds for all the equipment I wrecked."

Lestrade let out a groan before banging his head against a pillar. This week couldn't get any worse even if he started vomiting rainbows himself.

**Friday:**

"I got nothing," Donovan admitted, lounging back in the chair she was sitting in. "What about you, sir?"

"I'm done with this whole thing," Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. "How many ways are there to make a man vomit!?"

"I'm not sure," Anderson said suddenly, rolling up the sleeve on his right arm. "But I have one more. Follow me." The two remaining members of the trio pushed themselves out of their chairs to follow Anderson as he weaved his way through the countless workers crowding the office. Finally, he came to the door where Sherlock was working and sucked in a deep breath. Then he pushed it open and walked in, his stance radiating determination.

Sherlock was standing alone in the middle of the room, looking at a few pieces of paper he'd hung up regarding the case. He'd told Lestrade when he arrived that John had gone to work and he'd be alone for the day. He'd asked him not to be disturbed before slamming the door shut and refusing to leave.

...Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Before Lestrade could voice his opinion, Anderson walked up to him, threw his fist back, and punched him in the gut. Sherlock doubled over, clutching his stomach as he drew in staggered breaths, choking slightly.

"What - the bloody hell - was that?" he wheezed, tears gathering in his eyes as he tried to breathe. Why had Lestrade gotten himself into this?

"For God's sake, will you just throw up already!?" Anderson cried, throwing his hands in the air. "How is it _this_ hard to make one annoying little prat puke?"

"Excuse me?" he choked out, pushing himself up from the floor. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

"We - we were trying to see if you would vomit rainbows," Lestrade admitted guiltily. Before Sherlock could say another word, he continued with an anxious, "THEY MADE ME RESEARCH IT!"

"You were - what?"

Donovan sighed. "We were trying to see if you would vomit rainbows because we wanted to know if you were gay."

"You - " Sherlock's face turned a light shade of red, but clearly not from embarrassment. "Have you been trying to make me throw up this entire week!? Lestrade getting food poisoning, the pills, Anderson 'pranking' me, and the intern - that was all you!?"

"Well - "

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Sherlock practically screamed, throwing his hands in the air. "I don't know what the hell I am, I was asexual before I met John! I do _not_ need a label. John and I have been dating for months now, it's not exactly a secret. You could have just asked instead OF TRYING TO MAKE ME VOMIT RAINBOWS, YOU INSUFFERABLE PLONKERS!"

Lestrade knew Anderson couldn't resist. Even if Sherlock practically had steam coming out of his ears, he couldn't, for the life of him, resist the urge to mock the freak. "We were trying to make you vomit for a week. You just figured it out now? I thought a _genius_ like yourself would realize what we were trying to do _days_ ago."

Sherlock blinked, his look of anger slowly diminishing as a devious smile spread across his face. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Anderson. I've been a little distracted this week. For one thing, John and I ran out of lube after almost two hours of aggressive sex yesterday, so I need to stop by the shop on the way home. And, on another note, I can't stop thinking about how amazing it feels when John's pulsing erection slides into my warm, slicked up heat, leaving me helpless and moaning for more."

Lestrade paled, his stomach churning. He let out a squeak, looking at Sherlock in shock. Had he just said what he thought he said!?

Sherlock grinned, his eyes lighting up in mischief. "Did you ever figure out what the bet was about?" He paused, his expression cheerful. "Of course you didn't. I imagine you're still curious. Well, if you must know, I promised to be John's slave for a week if he could get me to come within a single minute." He shrugged. "Of course, we'd already broken a few beds and soaked the sofa in semen, but I was sure he wouldn't be able to do _that_. But I was wrong. Oh _God_, was I wrong.

"Do you want to know what he did to me? He didn't even prepare me, he just slammed deep into my ass before I could say a word. Of course, I was still loose from the day before - still had his cum dripping down my thighs. He pounded into me relentlessly, jerking me off while he hit my prostate at every thrust. And if that wasn't enough, the things he _said! _I bet you want to know about that too."

Before Lestrade could even let out a squeak, he continued. "He whispered in my ear the whole time. Things along the line of, 'Mmm, Sherlock, so ready for me. Always willing to take my cock, aren't you? Of course you are, always begging for me, screaming my name until your throat's raw. You know what that does to me? How hard I get for you, even when we're surrounded by other people? Of course you do. You know that I'll bend you over and fuck you no matter where we are, just like that time I fucked you on Lestrade's desk. Such a good little slut.'" Sherlock paused, smiling innocently. "Say, did I ever mention John and I had sex on your desk? No? Hmm, must have slipped my mind. Anyway, I was coming within seconds, painting the couch with white strips of my seed. Obviously, he won.

"And when I promised to be his slave, it wasn't just about tedious things like sleeping and eating. No, it was about walking around all day with a butt plug shoved up my ass. In fact, I have one in me right now. Of course, it's nothing compared to John's throbbing cock, but it still makes me hard and wanton for him all day. Quite inconvenient when I'm trying to do work. Ah, well. The endless fucking is worth it, I guess." He beamed then, his eyes lighting up with endless delight. "I hope you enjoy those images for the rest of your life." And with that, he grabbed his jacket and strolled out of the room, humming some tune that Lestrade swore he'd heard in a porno.

"Where are you going?" Donovan asked, looking at Anderson who had turned a light shade of green. Honestly, Lestrade was sure he had as well.

"I'm going to go vomit," he answered simply before bolting to the bathroom.

Donovan blinked. "Think Anderson vomits rainbows?"

Lestrade sighed, collapsing into a chair and propping his feet up on the desk. He shook his head, looking exasperated. "I don't know. Not my division."

**Ta da! :D This took much longer than I expected, but hey! I finished it! Anyway, thank you SO much for reading! Just a little reminder that if you don't leave me a one-word prompt, I can't write anymore. And reviews are like sweet little kittens :3 Oh, feel free to request genres as well! Oh and before I forget, I'd like to thank**

**DaviesInTheMaking**

**a-lazy-timelord**

**Guest**

**Cantanti**

**Dr. **

**RoseyMulvey**

**Werewolf not a goldenretriever**

**TheOneWhoStoleYourCheese**

**so much for reviewing! Hope you liked it! :D Bye for now!**

**- Gallifrey101**


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